


White Wings

by Zdenka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: B2MeM 2018, Gen, Númenor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: As Sauron’s influence grows in Númenor, Míriel and a scholar of the Faithful discuss the translation of Elvish poetry.





	White Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huinare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huinare/gifts).



> This is an extremely late fulfilment of something I promised to write for Huinare, who prompted: "I'd like to see Míriel, as the downfall of Númenor draws near, discover/remember a poem or song that comforts her, if only for a moment."
> 
> Finished with encouragement/inspiration from B2MeM 2018 and this B2MeM prompt: [photograph](http://res.freestockphotos.biz/pictures/9/9950-seagulls-flying-over-the-beach-at-sunset-pv.jpg) of seagulls at sunset. Thanks to thinkatory for beta-reading.

He was announced, very properly, as Azrahad—a man with an Elvish name would not have been admitted to the palace—but even if he had not been recommended to her by Amandil, Míriel would have recognized him as an Elf-friend. His face was clean-shaven, as was customary among the Elendili, his eyes and eyelids without cosmetics; though his hair was not bound into the twisting braids they favored, it was longer than the current court fashion, pulled back into a long tail that fell nearly to his waist. His robes too were old-fashioned in cut. He seemed a scholar rather than a sailor, his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes telling of sleepless nights and long study.

He bowed before her, clutching a bundle of manuscript pages awkwardly under his arm. “My Queen.” His speech, she noted, bore the betraying accent of Rómenna.

Míriel gave no sign of her thoughts as she gestured for him to approach. “You are Azrahad?”

He hesitated a moment. “Yes, my lady.”

“The King’s kinsman Lord Aphanuzîr has asked me to grant you an audience,” Míriel said, careful to use Amandil’s Adûnaic name. It would be foolish to slip in such a small matter. “What is it that you would tell me?”

“Not to tell you, my lady, but to show you.” He proffered his manuscript. “I have finished a work which I hoped might interest you. I could say much about my reasons and intentions, but I think it is better if you see it first and judge it for yourself.”

At Míriel’s nod, one of her attendants took the pages and gave them to her. She opened the pile of pages at random. The lines ran down the page in the pattern of verse. She frowned slightly as she recognized the form. Unusual, to write in Adûnaic using the Sindarin _ann-thennath_ mode. The poem she had opened to must be from the story of Elwing:

_A stranger fate she must fulfil:_  
_Swift-falling from the rocky height_  
_To depths of ocean waters chill,_  
_Their heavy weight enfolding her,_  
_She rose again on wings of white_  
_With seabird’s voice lamenting shrill,_  
_Twisted and tossed in spinning flight,_  
_The gusting winds upholding her._

_A single glance she cast below_  
_At flashing swords and gleaming mail,_  
_Their figures dark against the glow_  
_Of red-lit flames devouring,_  
_Then flung herself into the gale,_  
_Above the salt sea dipping low,_  
_In frantic search for one white sail_  
_Among the dark waves towering._

She knew these lines, Míriel realized. But the verses that unfolded in her mind were in Sindarin, not Adûnaic. “This is Elvish poetry,” she said slowly, without looking up. “And you have translated it?”

“Just so, my Queen. There are some challenges,” Azrahad admitted cheerfully. “Particularly with trying to preserve both the sense and the meter. But I thought it was worth attempting. Elvish poetry, both in Sindarin and Quenya, and Elvish stories are out of favor in these days. I thought that by rendering them into Adûnaic, I might send a ship across, as it were, and bring back a small part of the light and knowledge of the Elder Days for those who are unwilling or unable to read the Elven-tongues.”

Míriel gave him a sharp look. “Reading or speaking the Elven-tongues is forbidden,” she said, “by decree of the King. It is likewise forbidden to possess Elvish books.”

“There is no Elvish in this book, my lady—save for a few proper names which it seemed most fitting to leave as they were. If Elvish is forbidden, then let us have Adûnaic! One loses the beauty of the original lines, and some shades of meaning, but it is better than their not being known at all.”

The Elven-tongues and Adûnaic—once they had fit together to make the two halves of the world, like sea and sky. She remembered her father pointing to the constellations and teaching her their names: Menelmacar, Soronúmë, Telumendil. And then in Adûnaic: Minalzagar, Narâkadûn, Rakuzîr. Now half the world was sheered away. Since Ar-Pharazôn had made her his wife, none had called her by any name but Zimraphel. 

She said flatly, “You are naïve, Master Azrahad, if you think that argument will convince the King—still less his advisor the Zigûr.”

“Why should the King dislike it?” Azrahad said stubbornly. He ignored her reference to Sauron, perhaps wishing to pursue one line of argument at a time, or perhaps simply choosing not to acknowledge him; Amandil’s people used to turn their faces away and refuse to bow when they met Sauron at court. He unconsciously gestured in the air as he spoke to emphasize his words. “These poems honor the ancestors of his kingly line, the mother and father of Elros Tar-Minyatur: Elwing, whose courage brought the Valar’s aid to Middle-earth, and Eärendil, whose light first guided our forefathers to Númenórë. These stories are our people’s stories as well.” 

Azrahad spoke the Elvish names with evident love. There was a rustling among her attendants in their court robes of red and gold, a slight movement of exchanged glances, though they were too well-trained to speak aloud; subtle enough that Míriel could pretend not to notice. She said in a measured tone, “It may be so, but the King does not now wish to remember it.”

“We must remember,” Azrahad said earnestly, leaning forward. “If our knowledge is lost, we will be like the people of Bëor, who could say only that a darkness lay behind them. I would not have that be the fate of our people, lady.”

“A darkness indeed,” Míriel murmured.

She turned her eyes to the page again, reading the Adûnaic and hearing the Sindarin like an echo behind it. She could not help recalling the first time she heard the poem recited.

She was with her parents on one of their visits to Roménna. Her mother had become involved in a discussion of music with Amandil’s wife and chose not to interrupt it, but Míriel, her father, and Amandil went down the path of grey and purple slate to the shore.

They swam in the clear waters of the bay, and then Amandil and her father sat on the sand and talked while Míriel wandered up and down the beach looking for shells and sea-smoothed pebbles or watching the little crabs scurry sideways into their holes.

She looked up from gathering a purple-banded shell to find a large seagull watching her, white with grey wings. It gave a sudden loud screech, and she jumped, startled. She didn’t care for the way it was looking at her, as if she were a new kind of fish to be pecked at. She gave a seagull-screech back.

The gull hopped away and screeched again. Intrigued, Míriel followed it, flapping her arms like wings. The gull gave another shrill cry and broke into flight, lifting into the air. Míriel laughed to see its wings beat so hard; she could feel the breeze on her face as it went past her. There was another flock of gulls on the beach near where Amandil and her father were sitting. Míriel charged at them, waving her arms and shouting, and suddenly she was surrounded by a flapping of white wings and shrill calls in glorious confusion, as they all took off at once.

“Míriel,” Amandil called. She brushed wind-blown strands of hair away from her face and turned to look at him. “Stop chasing your cousins.”

“My cousins?” Míriel echoed, confused. Amandil’s son Elendil was her cousin, and so was the King’s grandson Pharazôn, but neither of them was here. At his gesture, she dropped down on the warm sand next to him.

Amandil nodded seriously. “You and I and your father are all descended from Lady Elwing, who took the form of a sea-bird. We are kin to her, and so these sea-birds are kin to us.”

Her father was trying not to laugh. “We are kin to sea-gulls? Is that what you take from the story of Elwing, Amandil?” He had sand on his robes and strands of his hair were coming loose from their cord. He was smiling and relaxed as he seldom was in Armenelos, under the King his father’s eye.

“Why not?” Amandil returned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “At the least, it befits us to be courteous to them. Do you know the story of Elwing, Míriel?”

“Yes,” Míriel said at once. “But I want to hear it again.” It was always a pleasure to hear Amandil tell stories or read poetry; he spoke as if he were truly there in the midst of events, taking on the role of each character in turn, so that even the driest chronicles came alive.

Amandil looked off into the distance, gathering his thoughts. Then he began to chant in Sindarin, reciting a poem of the Elder Days. The sound of the waves and the lonely cries of the gulls joined with his words and seemed to form one melancholy music.

Amandil began with the attack on the Havens of Sirion by the Sons of Fëanor. He spoke of Elwing’s desperate leap, her transformation, and her flight across the waves to find Eärendil. Caught between hope and hopelessness, the two of them debated what to do. Then Elwing bound the Silmaril as a shining light upon Eärendil’s brow. He turned the ship westward, and as if in answer, a great wind arose. She stood beside him as the light of the Silmaril dispelled the clinging gloom of the Shadowy Isles, and together they passed into the West. 

At last Amandil fell silent, and for a few moments there was only the sound of the waves splashing against the shore. Míriel remained leaning against Amandil’s side, the sun warm on her hair. She looked up to see another seagull a few feet away. It tilted its head and regarded her with beady black eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she said to the gull. “I won’t chase you any more.”

Her father rose and bowed. “Tell Lady Elwing that we remember her sacrifice, and that we honor her.” The gull gave a shrill cry and rose with a flapping of its wings. It wheeled in the air and flew away westward. Míriel, her imagination fired by the poem, imagined it speeding far over the waves until it came to Elwing in her white tower, where it could tell her that her son’s people still thought of her.

Míriel found herself smiling a little at the memory. It was a more innocent time, she thought, her smile fading as she glanced at the poem in her hands. Before her father ascended to the throne, and before his death; before Ar-Pharazôn brought Sauron to Númenor in chains, before his prisoner chained the King in turn with his lying words. She could hear the poem now in Amandil’s voice, and the images came again to her mind as they had then. Fire and darkness, a gull tossed on stormy winds, white wings, white sails—

She looked up to find that Azrahad was still waiting patiently for her to reply, his hands clasped in front of him. “Has it occurred to you, Master Azrahad,” Míriel asked, “that the same lines can have a different meaning at different times?”

Azrahad’s brow furrowed. “No, my Queen. The meaning of the words is the same. It does not change with the passing of years.”

“Do you think so? And yet, Elwing’s flight on white wings, leaving fire and death behind her—you think it has no other meaning in these days?”

He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it signifies the Gift of Men, and how the Enemy cannot pursue beyond the Circles of the World those who refuse him.”

“I had in mind a more physical salvation,” Míriel said dryly. “To me, it calls to mind how many of your lord Aphanuzîr’s folk are taking ship for Middle-earth, where they may follow whatever customs please them. If you wish to read and translate Elvish poetry in peace, it may be wise for you to do the same.”

Azrahad shook his head stubbornly. “I am a man of Númenor,” he said. “These translations, the knowledge of our heritage—these are gifts I wish to give to my own people, not take them abroad to a strange country.”

“If you try to keep all, you may be left with nothing.”

“It is the task of the scholar to protect and preserve,” Azrahad said passionately, “whatever the cost to himself.”

Did he truly know the cost, or that others besides himself might pay it? Míriel closed the manuscript again with finality. She handed it to her red-robed attendant to give back to him. “Master Azrahad, I regret to say that I cannot give my support to this work you have done. It would be unwise to publish it. If you must write on such a subject, it would be best to do no more than have it circulated privately among those who share your interests.”

Azrahad looked disappointed, but not surprised. He accepted his manuscript back and bowed. “I thank you nonetheless for granting me this audience, my lady. May the— May the King bless you with his favor and cause his countenance to shine upon you.”

Míriel knew that he did not speak of Ar-Pharazôn but Manwë, the King above all kings. He was so incautious, she thought despairingly. “Azrahad,” she said quietly. “If you will heed my counsel: take ship for Middle-earth, with your family and whatever books you hold most dear.”

His face went carefully blank. “I will consider your words, my Queen.” 

There was nothing more to say; she gave him leave to go. 

When he had gone, Míriel rested her chin thoughtfully on her hand. Azrahad had spoken of darkness, but she had no need for his words of warning. Darkness was not behind them, but before them and all around them, pressing closer little by little. The darkness of a stormy night, a clouded sky— She found herself murmuring half-aloud, not knowing where the words came from: “And it may yet be that the bearers of our hope will fly from the Land of the Star with no star to guide them.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aphanuzîr – Amandil’s Adûnaic name is from HOME IXb, _Sauron Defeated_.
> 
> _ann-thennath_ – An Elvish mode of poetry, exemplified by the Tale of Tinúviel that Aragorn recites in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , “A Knife in the Dark”. I assume that it’s a Sindarin rather than Quenya verse form, both because its name is Sindarin and because a poem about Beren and Lúthien seems more likely to have been written by a Sindarin-speaker. Aragorn says it “is hard to render in our Common Speech, and this is but a rough echo of it.” I like his excuse, and it can be my excuse too, if the verses are awkward!
> 
> Zigûr – Wizard. A name for Sauron in Adûnaic.
> 
> _we will be like the people of Bëor, who could say only that a darkness lay behind them._ – From _The Silmarillion_ , “Of the Coming of Men Into the West”: “‘A darkness lies behind us,’ Bëor said; ‘and we have turned our backs upon it, and we do not desire to return thither even in thought.’”
> 
> _Perhaps it signifies the Gift of Men, and how the Enemy cannot pursue beyond the Circles of the World those who refuse him._ – From Húrin’s words to Morgoth: “You are not the Lord of Men, and shall not be, though all Arda and Menel [earth and heaven] fall in your dominion. Beyond the Circles of the World you shall not pursue those who refuse you.” ( _Unfinished Tales_ , “Narn i Hîn Húrin”)
> 
> _May the King bless you with his favor and cause his countenance to shine upon you._ – Adapted from a Jewish blessing. 
> 
> _And it may yet be that the bearers of our hope will fly from the Land of the Star with no star to guide them._ – From Amandil’s words to Elendil: “But it is most like that you shall fly from the Land of the Star with no star to guide you; for that land is defiled.” ( _The Silmarillion_ , “Akallabêth”)


End file.
